


Cinnamon

by archetypal_model_of_a_bee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Violinist!Sherlock, violinist!Molly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 12:07:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/686773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archetypal_model_of_a_bee/pseuds/archetypal_model_of_a_bee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her grandmother had given her a box when she'd turned ten.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cinnamon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MorbidbyDefault](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorbidbyDefault/gifts).



> First attempt at Sherlolly, written for the wonderful MorbidbyDefault.

_In your fitted coat and tangled winter hair_  
Cheeks a little rosy in the February air  
And running through the subway  
And in the midnight quiet, outside the world away  
We could have just one more, maybe you could stay(?)  
-x-  
**Cinnamon (noun, often attributive)\ˈsi-nə-mən\\- 1a: any of several Asian trees (genus Cinnamomum) of the laurel family b: an aromatic spice prepared from the dried inner bark of a cinnamon (especially C. zeylanicum); also: the bark 2: a light yellowish brown**

Her grandmother had given her a box when she'd turned ten; a coming-of-age present, as she put it. It was soft and brown, made out of dark cinnamon wood and clasped shut with two flowery golden clasps. At the time, she had thought it looked rather like a princess’s box, one that would hold her most precious belongings and guard them against fiery beasts until the end of time.

When she opened it under her grandmother’s watchful gaze:

Graphite sticks, smooth, thick paper, charcoal pencils, a whole _rainbow_ of paints lined up inside in perfect order-blue in front of indigo in front of violet- all silently clamouring for her to use them.

She’d been thrilled with its newness.

By the time the sky was tinged with gold and cream and the sun was dropping into it like a cherry onto a mass of whipped icing, the box was gummy with wet-paint prints, its woody interior stained with smudges of charcoal, and paper flew through the sticky air in her room as she made it a game to see how many sheets she could throw into the wastebasket.

Her grandmother shook her head and said something: “Dear, I think that art is not your _thing_. Perhaps I can have the kit?”

She handed it over and eyed as her grandmother coaxed beauty out of the sticky, smudgy box and its sticky, smudgy contents.

She was perfectly content to watch.

-x-

They tried dance next.

She rose up on her toes and tried to execute a pirouette like the other girls were doing (accomplishing).

Her shoes (she selected them herself, fuchsia) were ripped from falling at the end of the lesson.

Molly never wanted to see them again.

-x-

Singing.

She raised her voice as high as it would go and squeaked out a note.

-x-

Art.

Dancing.

Singing.

-x-

Ibid.

Ibid.

Ibid.

Ibid.

Until her grandmother died. She left Molly a violin.

-x-

Ten years later and she is in her grandmother's house again.

She stands perfectly still in her pressed black dress and shiny shoes while her brother cries against their mother's shoulder. There's a small crowd of people behind her pretending not to notice. They pick white, wiry dog hairs off their black trousers and off the hems of their dark, mourning suits. The dog weaves through their feet, tail wagging.

“There's something for you,” her mother says to her a few minutes later, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “In the living room, she left it there for you.”

There’s nothing but a box.

It’s sticky and smudgy, covered in small, congealed fingerprints. Molly thinks back to the day when she was ten and the sun looked like it was sinking into a gloriously edible pile of whipped icing.

The hinges are still the same, golden and flowery; the wood still smells like moist darkness and cinnamon.

She opens it.

Everything is the same, yet not at the same time.

Her grandmother’s left her a violin. Molly thinks that maybe she did know her better than she thought. She presses the box to her chest and scampers out of the house, out of the sickening smell of moist, dark, cinnamon-y wood that seems to have pervaded the house, no wait, that’s the smell of death.

Oh well.

She doesn’t care.

-x-

She learns to cut open corpses and not be bothered by moist, dark, cinnamon-y smells that just _seem_ to waft through her lab and cling to her clothes.

Her fingers grow callused and hard, patterns of her (grandmother’s) violin imprinted in the epidermal layer.

Every instrument has its own feel, its own texture, and her violin is no different. It’s stained with paint lined up just so, blue in front of indigo in front of violet, the cracks have been mended over the years with a thin powdery dust of charcoal and graphite, and waif-like fibres of smooth, creamy paper float through the air whenever she picks it up.

She lightly fingers the violin, tracing its cracks and ridges, places where it’s been bumped into walls a thousand times, picks it up and plays.

Her fingers are already used to it; cutting open people’s stomach’s requires a certain amount of fluidity and grace, contrary to what her mum said.

Molly doesn’t realize that she’s playing the violin in Bart’s morgue until Sherlock Holmes bursts in on her.

She doesn’t sense his presence, however, until Sherlock casually brushes past her and asks for his bag of feet.

She puts the violin down, bumps it onto a chair, and transforms back into the shy, stuttering girl who’s infatuated with him.

-x-

The first time Molly composes him, it's almost three in the morning and she's drunk on red wine (after being insulted yet again). It’s harsh, wild, and almost like the devastating coldness in his eyes, it’s not a beautiful melody because Sherlock Holmes is not a beautiful man, but she doesn’t care.

It’s accurate.

-x-

She plays in the morgue again.

Tchaikovsky’s Trepak.

Stamitz’s Sinfonia in G.

Flight of the Bumblebee.

He comes in again.

Again, she doesn’t realize his presence until he casually brushes against her (for a lot longer than should be necessary) and blows through the haze of gummy paint prints, cherries on icing, and fibres of smooth, creamy paper floating through the air.

He doesn’t ask her for anything; instead, presses his warm, lean chest against her back, a hand to her bow, and plays with her.  
She is shocked, astonished, as Sherlock guides her through the final bars which she has never been able to perfect.

He leaves.

She puts the violin down, bumps it onto a chair, and transforms back into the shy, stuttering girl who’s infatuated with him.

-x-

The next time Baker Street’s fridge needs a bag of hands, he brings his violin along.

They play.

-x-

She’s cleaning up after hours, getting rid of that disgusting, moist, cinnamon-y scent which clings to her clothes like Death’s own perfume, when he comes into the morgue.

Her words come back to her- _“I don't count. But if there's anything I can do—anything you need, anything at all—you can have me. No, I just mean. I mean, if there's anything you need, it's fine.”_

Molly knows something is wrong.

She shuts the lights off to leave (there’s something wrong with this picture which she can’t quite place) when he silently pads into the room.

“You're wrong, you know. You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you. But you were right. I'm not okay.”

“Then tell me what's wrong.”  
“Molly, I think I'm going to die.”  
“What do you need?” she asks, unfazed by the statement.  
“If I wasn't everything that you think I am, everything that I think I am, would you still want to help me?”  
 “What do you need?” she repeats. There is definitely something wrong here; Sherlock Holmes does not ask people to repeat things just because.  
“You.”

-x-

She knows she doesn’t count, never has and never will because Moriarty didn’t train the snipers on her.

John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade.

Not Molly. Of course, she’s perfectly fine with the fact that there is no sniper training his gun on her.

She fakes an autopsy report and drags him along to her flat.

-x-

He goes off to fight the remainder of Moriarty’s network.

She misses him now and again, but she’s fine with it. But maybe, maybe, _maybe_ he would come back and they could have just one more? One more night?

_-threeyearslater-_

Violin music is drifting out of the guest room, sharp and piercing, diving into slurs with a distinctly pointy feel, then lifting itself up with a sweetened melody.

Without pausing to bother about finding a key, he picks the lock and steps inside. Treads on the stairs lightly.

The violin pauses.

He continues to walk.

The violin starts up again. (He’s brought his along, too, for this purpose)

Molly’s waiting for him by the doorway, playing Bach’s Partita in D-minor. He tucks his violin under his chin and begins to play with her.

Their bows rise and fall with unity across the strings, notes leap out from sheet music, hands vibrato gently.

Molly smiles

-x- 


End file.
